


victor (nikiforov)

by pocoloki



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Don’t copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, vityaweek2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 06:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocoloki/pseuds/pocoloki
Summary: "That’s how it starts, in his mind, that disparity between the real Victor and Victor Nikiforov.Victor Nikiforov loves roses, where Victor loves lilacs.Simple enough.And then it starts to grow."There's a disconnect that comes with fame and fortune, between a person's public image and their true self. Victor has been eclipsed by the concept of Victor Nikiforov for so long that he begins to forget where he ends and the mask begins. That is, until someone asks just for him.Vitya Week 2018, Day 3: Loved





	victor (nikiforov)

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for day 3 of [Vitya Week 2018](https://vityaweek.tumblr.com/). A big thank you to the wonderful organizers who made this event possible, and to all the talented creators who submitted such beautiful work to celebrate our sweet boy's special day!
> 
> And also my eternal gratitude to everyone in the [We Write Victuuri](https://wewritevictuuri.tumblr.com/) discord server, I cannot thank you enough for all the patience and support and encouragement as I stressed nonstop about this piece (and every other piece I have ever written tbh). You are all amazing and I can't even say how much I appreciate every single one of you <3

Victor is 16 years old when he first becomes aware of Victor Nikiforov, in his bedroom at Yakov and Lilia’s house, reading an article in a sports magazine entitled “5 Up-And-Comers to Watch Out For This Season”. Next to the number 3 in the article, his own face stares back at him from the page.  _Victor Nikiforov, Men’s Singles Figure Skating, Age16, Russia_. It’s your standard magazine fare, a little two-paragraph blurb about his background, his past accomplishments, his hobbies, his interests.

 _Victor Nikiforov loves dogs_ , it says.  _His favourite thing to do outside the rink is to curl up with a good book_ , it says.  _His favourite flowers are blue roses_ , it says, and Victor grins bemusedly at the page. He isn’t sure where the author of this particular column had gotten that idea. His favourite flowers have always been lilacs. His grandmother had had a few lilac trees in her garden back home when he was young, and the scent has always made him think of her.

It doesn’t bother him, at the time. It’s an insignificant tidbit of misinformation, nothing to worry about. And two out of three correct factoids isn’t bad, he supposes. And then, at his next competition, when he finishes his skate, the crowd showers the ice in blue roses.

Victor doesn’t dislike the roses, and it would be both rude and pointless to try and correct people about his preferred type of flower. So he accepts the bouquets with a gracious smile and a wave to the crowd.

That’s how it starts, in his mind, that disparity between the real Victor and Victor Nikiforov.

Victor Nikiforov loves roses, where Victor loves lilacs.

Simple enough.

And then it starts to grow.

As Victor’s accomplishments pile up, so does attention from sponsors, from fans, from sports media outlets. And with each interview, each publication, each sponsorship deal, Victor Nikiforov grows, a perception, an idea of him and the kind of person he is that exists completely in the public’s collective imaginations, completely out of his control.

Victor Nikiforov is effortlessly graceful on the ice, while Victor has to put in hours of gruelling, sweaty work at the rink each and every day.

Victor Nikiforov lands his quads smoothly, surprising and delighting his audience, while Victor is sent sprawling to the cold, hard unforgiving surface of the rink over and over and over again.

Victor Nikiforov’s skin is flawless, and his hair flows elegantly over his shoulders, pristine and shimmering. Victor breaks out on the regular and it takes ages for him to brush out his tangles each morning.

Victor Nikiforov is delightfully bright and charming, always ready with a winning smile and cheeky wink that send young men and women alike swooning.  Victor has days where he feels so empty and hollow and drained inside that he can barely bring himself to get out of bed to take Makkachin for a walk.

Victor Nikiforov is a playboy, hopping from relationship to relationship, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake. And Victor? Well, Victor isn’t quite so lucky in love.

It’s not that he doesn’t  _want_  love; quite the opposite. He craves it so much it  _hurts,_  this ever-present ache in his chest in the shape of someone, anyone, who could ease the terrible loneliness that eats away at him. He seeks out love in all its forms, falls briefly in love with nearly anyone who shows him positive attention.

But none of them want him. They all want Victor Nikiforov. They want beauty and glamour and talent and charm, and he can do that. He does that, for them, for a time. He learns to perform Victor Nikiforov flawlessly, to live in that mask for days, weeks, months on end. Long enough, he hopes, to make them stay.

But they never do. No matter how well he performs Victor Nikiforov, he can’t keep up the charade forever. Eventually, inevitably, Victor shows through. Workaholic Victor, forgetful Victor, Victor with bedhead and no makeup on, Victor who occasionally gets annoyed and snappy and sarcastic. Victor who sweats and bleeds and works and works and works and  _works_. Victor who can’t “just cheer up.” Victor who is too clingy, too needy, too  _much_.

They hadn’t signed on for that, none of them had.

So they leave, all of them, over and over again, and honestly? Victor can’t blame them. He prefers Victor Nikiforov, too. He knows if he ever wants a hope of finding love, of  _deserving_  love, he has to do better.

So he leans into Victor Nikiforov, tries to become him. He puts in more hours at the rink, working from the crack of dawn until he can barely move from exhaustion, pushing himself to his absolute limits and beyond. He practices that winning smile in the mirror, practices and practices and practices until you can barely even tell that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He destroys himself over and over and over again, breaks himself down and rebuilds as many times as it takes to live up to people’s expectations.

Victor Nikiforov is an image, you see, a concept rather than a human being, so it’s easy enough to change and mold him as the need arises. One season he is Victor Nikiforov the Rebel, the next he is Victor Nikiforov the Sensitive Artist, the next, Victor Nikiforov the Playboy. He becomes a new person each year, becomes whatever is necessary to continue to surprise his audience, to exceed their expectations, to be worthy of their admiration and love the way he knows Victor could never be. And it is exhausting work.

He lives in the ever-changing mask of Victor Nikiforov for so long that he might have forgotten it was even there, if not for that cold, lonely, desperately sad part of him curled up deep inside, begging for a love that is real and whole and unconditional, a love that he knows Victor could never be worthy of. But even that becomes easy enough to ignore after a time. His career is flourishing, the sponsor offers are pouring in, the world is at his feet. There are more than enough distractions to keep that ugly, broken part of himself quiet.

But try as he might, he can never silence it completely. It’s always there, and more pronounced than ever in the quiet moments when he returns home from the rink to his empty apartment, when he stands on the beach looking out onto the ocean, when he wakes up every morning in a cold and empty bed.

Victor Nikiforov has everything in the world, and yet Victor has never felt emptier.

Those closest to him might notice, he thinks. Yakov notices, but he never says much. As long as Victor continues to medal and pay his coaching fees, it isn’t really his place to pry into his personal life. Makkachin notices too, when Victor comes home exhausted, slumps down against the door and buries his face in her fur. But of course, she never says anything either.

His career slowly loses its allure. The constant pressure to continue to exceed expectations starts to weigh on him. He is 25, and he knows his body can only do so much for so long. Even Victor Nikiforov has limits, after all, and for the first time, he is struck with the prospect of eventually having to face them. He can no longer shock and amaze the audience like he once could. They still love him - still love Victor Nikiforov, that is - but it’s only a matter of time until he can no longer handle the physical toll of this sport. He has reached the apex of his career, reached as high as he can… it’s only downhill from here.

So, these are his options. He can stay in competition until his body gives out entirely, getting knocked lower and lower on the podium until he never even makes it on at all, and shrink into obscurity as the sad story of a once-talented skater who had fallen from grace.

Or he can walk away from the career that is slowly killing him, retire while he is still on top… and then what? He has given everything for his career, everything, always. He has nothing else. Nothing but an empty apartment and a beloved dog who is pushing 14. That’s it. His whole life.

And either of those options would kill Victor Nikiforov.

If he stays in competition until he burns out, his carefully constructed persona will crack, and the world will see him as he really was. Clumsy, imperfect, unworthy.

If he walks away from the world of figure skating, Victor Nikiforov will fade into obscurity just the same. And with his limited interests outside the sport, few friends and no family, he’d just end up stuck in his apartment with a stranger be barely even knows.

It’s an impossible choice. So, like every other difficult and painful thought, he pushes it deep down inside himself, plasters a dazzling smile on his face, and pretends nothing is wrong. Lets the concern fester inside him along with everything else, and, for the time being, keeps going with his career like he always has.

And then Sochi.

Another medal like a noose around his neck. Another empty smile. Another boring banquet, sipping champagne and waiting for it to be over so he can go back to his room, take off his mask, and shut out the world again.

And then Yuuri Katsuki.

Confident, alluring, inebriated Yuuri Katsuki, dancing like a fool in a room full of the creme de la creme of the figure skating world.

Victor Nikiforov would never do something so tasteless. Victor Nikiforov is polished and perfect, sociable but reserved enough to keep himself out of too much trouble. Victor Nikiforov really shouldn’t even be watching this, should just smile fetchingly and then politely direct his attention somewhere else.

But Victor can’t take his eyes off the man.

Yuuri Katsuki is breathtaking. He moves like pure sin, drawing Victor almost unconsciously into his orbit. His dark eyes bore into him, hazy from the drink but sparkling with want. He asks him to dance, and before Victor has time to think it though, he’s in Yuuri Katsuki’s arms, the world is spinning around them, and he feels lighter than he has in years.

Victor Nikiforov shouldn’t be doing this, he knows. Victor Nikiforov has an image to uphold.

But Victor is weak. He wants to stay in Yuuri Katsuki’s arms forever.

“Be my coach, Victor!”

…And maybe, just maybe, he can.

But Yuuri Katsuki never calls him back.

He passes the time working on new programs. Eros, because his dreams are filled with dark eyes and champagne and strong arms around him. Agape, because he wonders what it would be like to experience a love that was truly unconditional.

What it would be like if that dark-eyed man could love him, unconditionally. It’s a pipe dream, he knows, but it’s also the only thing that keeps him going.

And then, a link to a YouTube video. And then, a plane. And then, a hot spring in Japan.

Victor Nikiforov would never do something this impulsive and irrational. Victor doesn’t care.

While putting his things in his room, he catches a glimpse of Yuuri’s own bedroom down the hall. Specifically, of the posters lining his walls. Victor Nikiforov, in all his carefully posed and airbrushed glory, stares down at him from every angle.

The posters go back through nearly his entire career. Victor Nikiforov with long hair, with short hair, the rebel, the artist, the heartthrob. They all look down at him, this confusing hodgepodge of masks he’s worn throughout the years. Looking back at these perfect, idealized versions of himself, an uncomfortable feeling forms in the pit of his stomach.

_Which version do you want, Yuuri?_

He makes sure to greet Yuuri Katsuki in a manner befitting of Victor Nikiforov, rising from the water and posing himself like a statue in the middle of the hot spring. Beautiful, confident, beckoning. Victor is terrified. By the looks of it, Yuuri Katsuki is, too. This is surprising.

The first of many surprises, all of which boil down to one simple fact:

Yuuri is not like Yuuri Katsuki.

He is timid, polite, and turns beet red every time Victor goes near him. He stammers and flinches away when Victor tries to touch him. He starts to actively try to avoid him.

Af first, Victor worries that maybe he was wrong, after all. Maybe Yuuri doesn’t like him. But then his mind flits back to that poster-adorned wall, all those versions of himself - of Victor Nikiforov - staring down at him.

_Which one do you want?_

He doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be. He doesn’t know what mask to wear that will convince Yuuri that he’s worth his love, his attention, his time, that he’s worth anything at all. So finally, in desperation, he asks. Sitting on a sandbank, sandwiching Makkachin between them, his question hanging in the air with the smell of saltwater and the sound of seagulls’ cries.

And Yuuri thinks.

And Yuuri answers.

And of all the things he could have said, he chooses the one reply that sends a bolt of terror straight through Victor’s heart.

He doesn’t want him to be anything. He just wants him to be Victor.

Just Victor.

Victor doesn’t even know who Just Victor is. He doesn’t even  _like_  Just Victor. And why should he? No one else ever has.

But if it’s what Yuuri wants, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything for the chance to stay by Yuuri’s side, even if it means being Just Victor.

So he tries to let his walls down. It’s a long and painful process, and he still slips into old habits. He hides behind his smile when he’s angry or sad, tucks himself away behind the mask of Victor Nikiforov in the public eye, but… he tries.

And somehow, somehow… Yuuri manages to love Victor.

He manages to love the Victor he sees first thing every day, with bedhead and morning breath. He loves the Victor he sees in the hot spring, makeup washed off and hair sticking to his too-large forehead (when Victor mentions he’s insecure about it, Yuuri tells him it’s the perfect size for covering in kisses, and proceeds to do just that). He loves the Victor who is clumsy with his words, who doesn’t quite know how to handle Yuuri’s anxiety yet, who makes mistakes. The Victor who is flawed. The Victor who is  _human_.

And Victor loves the Yuuri who shies away from him. Who can be cold and aloof, who assumes the worst of people. Who gets so lost in his own thoughts that he forgets to communicate. Who has his selfish moments and jumps to conclusions too easily.

And Victor loves him. He  _loves_  him. Loves him more than he ever thought it was possible to love another human being. Loves him so much he feels his heart might break out of his chest every time Yuuri smiles that gentle, cautious smile in his direction.

He feels light, free in a way that he hasn’t felt in years. There is still a disconnect between himself and the public’s perception of him but he doesn’t mind so much anymore. They can have their Victor Nikiforov if they want. Yuuri thinks that Just Victor is enough, and that is more than enough for Victor.

__________

Still, he has his moments of weakness. Moments where he doubts himself and his worth. Moments where he feels small, weak, inadequate.

He asks Yuuri how he feels about Victor Nikiforov one night, curled up in bed together as Yuuri runs his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t exactly mean to, it just comes tumbling out. When he finishes speaking, Yuuri looks desperately sad.

“Don’t you, you know… prefer him?” Victor asks, his voice just a shade above a whisper, so afraid of the answer that he can barely manage to ask the question.

“I used to,” Yuuri admits after a while, and Victor’s heart sinks. Yuuri must see it in his eyes, because he cups Victor’s face gently and turns it to look at him. “And then I met you, and you were so much better.”

Yuuri’s eyes are so unbearably soft and earnest that Victor has to look away, his eyes stinging and vision blurring, but he’s stopped again by Yuuri’s gentle hand on his cheek.

“Listen, Victor. Whoever it was in your past that made you feel like you weren’t enough, they were wrong. So, so wrong.  And honestly, I feel sorry for them, because they’ll never get to see you the way I see you. They way you always know what to say to cheer someone up on a bad day. The silly little songs you make up when you brush Makkachin.” He smiles cheekily. “The way you snort when you laugh too hard.”

Victor gasps, offended. “I do not!”

“You do!” Yuuri grins. “You absolutely do, and I love it. I love you, Victor Nikiforov.”

And there it is again, that gentle smile that knocks him off his feet every time. He blinks back his tears and cuddles into Yuuri’s chest. “Call me Vitya?”

Yuuri hums, tender and full of love, and leans in to press a soft kiss to Victor’s forehead. “I love you, my Vitya.”

“I love you too, Yuuri.”

_______

“Victor Nikiforov is dead,” Yurio spits at him on a beach in Barcelona, several weeks later.

It’s true, Victor thinks as his ring sparkles in the early-morning sunlight,  but not in the way that Yurio intends it.

Victor Nikiforov is dead, and good riddance to him.

He likes the sound of Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov better, anyways.


End file.
